


behind the garden wall

by erebones



Series: the secret garden [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Epistolary, M/M, Secret Garden AU, Teen Romance, Underage Sex, background Cullrian, i mean they're like 16 years old so you decide what you're comfortable with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 04:49:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8149634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Felix and his father leave Misselthwaite Manor for a tour of Europe, leaving Carver behind and sorely testing their fragile boyhood romance.





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> a sequel to 'a pocket full of posies' that is... slightly less innocent. aka, the secret garden: x rated

Carver has never had a summer quite like this one. He works as hard as ever, but he plays harder, running through the gardens and hiking the moors side by side with Felix. Bethany joins them more and more infrequently as her household duties increase—and, to his annoyance, as she spends her lunches dawdling in the kitchens with the rest of the staff and sometimes the stablemen. They aren't _horrible_ people, and a few of them he even likes well enough (Fenris, of course, he likes very well and even grudgingly admires), but he doesn't trust any of them within three feet of his sister. Not even Fenris. He's her _twin._ It's his job to be overprotective.

Not that he can do much about it. He's kept busy with his work and with Felix, and Bethany grows increasingly tight-lipped on the subject, only calling him _nosy_ and _hypocritical_ when he asks.

“How am I hypocritical?” he demands when he hears this, loud enough that their mother looks across the vegetable patch at them. Bethany glares and shushes him, yanking another carrot from the ground with vigor before depositing it in her gathered apron.

“Whenever _I_ ask about Felix you just turn red and say it's none of my business. So how can you expect me to gossip to _you_ about my private life?”

He scoffs, which only succeeds in making her lips go tight and flat like a folded piece of paper. “Fine, don’t tell me,” he says shortly, prickling with hot indignation. Why does she always have to be right?

He finishes the rest of his chores in record time and slips away to the garden for the last few hours before supper. As ever, just stepping through the door—now kept unlocked at all times, in case Lord Alexius wishes to pay a visit—is like stepping into another world. The shaggy yellow locks of goldenrod nod along the walls and the crackled carapaces of milkweed have begun to split and spill their tender white innards into the late summer air. Carver had wanted to tear them out, but Felix protested so adamantly that they ended up being left. He finds he doesn’t mind, so much—when he reaches out and twists one pod free of its stalk, the silky seed-wisps inside peel away readily and leave behind only the soft, scaley part behind for him to squeeze and toss into the shrubbery. Like the moor, the garden is still a little bit wild, not entirely tamed even after months of work, but that is part of its charm.

He means to work a little, but instead he ends up sprawling out on the grass, arms behind his head as he watches the little patch of blue sky dance with clouds above him. Time spools out and slows, like a skein of yarn drawn out of wool on a spinning wheel, and he’s half-convinced he’s dreaming when soft, barefoot steps approach on the grass and Felix hoves into view like a bird sweeping slow circles ’round a tree in search of a suitable place to build its nest. Carver reaches out and curls his fingers loosely around one bare ankle, and Felix tumbles down beside him with a soft laugh.

“Hello,” he says shyly. “I thought perhaps you were sleeping.”

“Wasn’t,” Carver mumbles, shutting his eyes. “Just resting.”

“Oh. Well I shan’t disturb you, then.” His voice sounds a little bit strained, and when Carver peeks one eye open he’s sitting with his arms around his knees, eyes on the grass without really looking at it. A tiny white moth forges bravely across the mountain of Felix’s big toe and abruptly launches itself into the air, fluttering away into obscurity when Carver pushes himself up to sitting.

“No, it’s all right. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, really. I just was looking for you. To, to tell you something.” Felix worries his lower lip between his teeth and turns to Carver abruptly. “Father just told me. In a few weeks, we’re… we’re leaving for the Continent.”

Carver’s belly drops out of his body and he sits slackjawed, feeling a cold chill work its way up his spine. “What do you mean, _leaving_?”

Felix winces, just a little, at the strident tone of Carver’s voice, hands twisting together and his toes digging anxiously into the grass. “Just for the winter. Father wants to take me to warmer climates, to avoid the bad weather. He doesn’t want me taking sick again, you see. We’ll be back in the spring, in time to start tending the garden again.”

The garden isn’t what Carver was worried about. His chest seizes tight, as if it were trapped by iron bands, and he gives one sharp nod. “Right. I hope you have a safe journey, then.”

“We aren’t leaving _right_ away,” Felix says anxiously, as if desperate to soften the blow. “Another fortnight, to get Father’s affairs in order and arrange for a tutor to come along with us. He says I’ve been neglecting my studies and I need to catch up.”

“Catch up,” Carver echoes dully.

“Yes. You know, so I’ll be ready for Eton when the time comes.”

 _Eton_. Those two sparse syllables are like a slap in the face. As if Carver had been dreaming all summer long, barriers broken down, only to be erected as easily as the changing of seasons at the reminder that Felix’s station in life is so much higher than he could ever hope to attain.

“Carver.” Felix takes his hands, and he lets him, too paralyzed to do anything to dissuade him. “Please don’t look at me that way. It isn’t as if I’m going away forever. We’ll still be friends when I return. And… I had rather hoped…”

He’s blushing, pretty as the purple coneflowers bobbing in the breeze behind him. Carver thaws, a bit, at the memory of the kiss they’d shared just the day before, under the welcome shadow of the ivy-cloaked wall—but somehow that hurts worse, too, knowing that all the shy touches and dancing around one another through the long summer days were for all nothing. Pride stung, he pulls away and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I think it would be best if I go,” he says, forcing the words out through the wooden trap his jaw has become.

“Go? Go where?”

Carver shakes his head—he isn’t even rightly sure, but he needs to get away from here _now_ , before he suffocates. The brick walls of the garden seem to close in on him and he backs toward the door with his chest aching and his eyes very dry as they look away from the distraught expression on his friend’s face. “See you,” he mumbles, and escapes.

///

If Felix is strangely quiet at dinner that evening, his father puts it down to tiredness and does not remark upon it, nor upon the pale complexion of his sun-kissed face as he excuses himself before dessert, making excuses about getting his things in order. For once, Felix is grateful for the lack of attention. He takes the stairs two at a time, his boots clomping on the floor, and when he’s finally alone in his rooms he slams the door and throws himself upon the bed as if he were a waifish heroine in a dime novel, grieving for her love.

He doesn’t cry, at least. That would have been unbearable. He used to weep at almost the slightest provocation, and he has distinct memories of being a spoilt, inconsolable child who would cry and fuss whenever he didn’t get his way. He’s too old for that now, he tells himself sternly. He will go down and see Carver tomorrow, and perhaps he will be ready to make friends again.

Tomorrow comes and Carver is nowhere to be found. Not in the garden when he goes looking—not in _any_ of the gardens—and Mr Rutherford is no help at all. When he goes down to the cottage in the afternoon, Leandra calmly serves him tea and asks after his father, but when Carver doesn’t return and he feels he’s worn out his welcome, he trudges back up to the Manor with a heavy heart. _Tomorrow,_ he thinks. _I’ll find him tomorrow. He can’t hide forever._

Not forever, perhaps, but somehow he manages to elude Felix for the next week and a half. It hardly helps matters when Felix becomes consumed with packing and preparations for the journey. The house is all in a ruckus as the servants prepare for a severely curtailed schedule, and Felix is often called into his father’s study to make arrangements for this bit of baggage or that hotel. By the time his last night in England creeps lowly over the grey horizon, he’s exhausted and lonely and has no idea what to do.

He spends the last few hours of daylight in their garden, alone. Waiting. He weaves three flower crowns before he pricks himself one too many times, and the pain of it is enough to make tears prickle hotly behind his lashes. Dashing his wrist angrily across his eyes, he abandons his lonesome work and leaves with an empty heart, deaf to the scolding he received from Martha when he lets himself into the servant’s entrance.

Sleep, he knows, will be impossible, but tomorrow will be worse if he doesn’t at least try. He dresses for bed slowly, fingers numb from the chill of his walk up to the house, and he crawls into bed dry-eyed and wide awake. He stares at the canopy overhead, unblinking. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks along steadily, stately, and he aches silently for the boy he’s leaving behind. _Hang the continent_ , he thinks half-heartedly. _Maybe Father will postpone our departure if I ask him tomorrow._

There comes a clatter at the window. Felix launches himself out bed and throws open the sash, peering out into the night. There’s only a sliver of moonlight to see by, but he can make out a shape he thinks is Carver—a shape he _hopes_ is Carver—standing below in the grass. He gets the frame open with a little effort and leans out into the night.

“Fee, it’s me.” Carver’s voice, pitched low to keep from carrying. The leaden ball in his stomach starts to dissipate. “Can I come up?”

“Meet me at the side door,” he says, and withdraws again, hopping into a pair of breeches and tucking his nightshirt into them before running out into the hall. It’s very late, by the grandfather clock in his room, nearly one in the morning—he’s a little amazed that Carver was able to sneak out of his cottage undetected.

When he opens the door, admitting the wet night air, Carver is there waiting for him. He looks terribly formal, hands behind his back and his eyes affixed just over Felix’s shoulder. “I’m sorry if I woke you,” he begins, but Felix shakes his head.

“You didn’t. I… haven’t been sleeping very well.”

Carver takes a breath. “I know it’s late, but I, I couldn’t let you leave without saying goodbye. And—and apologizing.”

Felix’s heart gives a little, stubborn leap of hope. “Would you… like to come in?”

Carver looks taken aback, as if he wasn’t expecting to get such an offer. The little crack in his stone facade warms Felix down to his toes and he reaches for him, taking his workworn hand and just holding him gently. “Um. Yes, all right.”

They walk in silence, hand in hand, to Felix’s rooms. Once there, a strange shyness overtakes him and he lets go, sitting on the edge of the bed and watching Carver move restlessly about the room. Untethered, he reminds Felix of a captainless ship, ploughing the waves without chart or course—although the room is large, he feels too big for it, thick-shouldered and tall like a young sapling shooting up rapidly to match its forebears. It warms Felix’s cheeks to admire him, and he’s grateful for the dimness of the room when Carver finally hoves into port beside the bed.

“I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you,” he says, standing once more like a soldier at attention with his hands behind his back and his eyes ever drifting just out of reach. “I was… upset. And I didn’t want to see you. But that was a bit stupid of me, because now—” He stops speaking very abruptly. Felix wouldn’t call it a _hitch_ in his voice, exactly, or a stammer, but the sound of it twists something in his gut regardless. “Well, now you’re leaving tomorrow and I’ve wasted all this time—”

“No—Carver, no, please don’t. It’s not your fault.” He grabs his hands again because he can, and then he’s flinging his arms around him and burying his face in his chest. He smells like _Carver_ , woodsmoke and heather and the sweat of hard, honest work that always clings to him, and it rekindles the memory of a shy kiss in an oak tree, the feel of Carver’s hands and the taste of his breath for that sweet, too-brief moment. “I’m sorry I have to go. I really wish—”

“Don’t. Please, I—I know you’re excited to go, and you should be. It’ll be a grand adventure.” He straightens, stiff upper lip in place, and for an instant Felix hardly recognizes him.

“I’m going to miss you terribly,” Felix whispers. And Carver just sort of… crumbles. Like wet sand before the tide he slumps forward, falling a little into Felix’s arms, and though it hurts, it feels so good to have him close.

“It all right if I…” Carver’s hand is already on his cheek, and Felix leans forward, desperate to fill the aching emptiness inside his chest.

The kiss is sloppy, at first, a little off-center and flecked with the wetness on Carver’s lashes, but Felix doesn’t mind. It feels _real_ , like the first true thing he’s felt since he ran through the grass of the garden for the first time. He tangles his fingers in Carver’s hair and delights in the little sound he makes, a deep rumble he can feel where their chests are pressed together.

Carver kisses so sweetly. Light, at first, lips brushing together without any real weight behind it, but growing firmer in time with his racing heart. Felix squirms in his arms, breathless, and slips his tongue out just a little to catch the plush inner curve of his upper lip. Carver stiffens, and the next foray is slow and exploratory, tongues sliding together briefly before retreating again. Felix’s skin is prickling and he feels too warm even under his thin clothes—when Carver rubs a hand up his spine he curves with it, and their bellies press together, hot and sweat-damp through their shirts.

“Should I, um,” Carver says, pulling back with his face bright pink and one dark curl falling over his damp forehead adorably.

“You should come here,” Felix says decidedly. His fingers curl in the fabric of his collar and draw him down, in, until he stands close between Felix’s legs and now there can be no pretending—the tight fit of his breeches makes more sense like this, with Carver hard in his trousers and his breath coming short against Felix’s temple.

“Er… sorry,” he fumbles, but he can’t seem to help himself—his hands form knots in the fabric of Felix’s shirt and nose nose finds the curve of his cheek, seeking as much skin-to-skin contact as possible.

Felix breathes deeply, tongue thick in his mouth, and presses a quick kiss to his jaw, only just beginning to roughen with the shadow of a beard. “Will you come up on the bed?”

“Do—do you want me to?” Carver asks, voice soft with wonder.

“I wouldn’t have asked, otherwise.”

Without waiting for a concrete answer, Felix detangles himself and scoots back, all the way until he can lay back against the pillows and pull at the collar of his nightshirt. He’s so bloody _hot_ , as if the fire had been stoked to a full blaze, and yet all he wants is for Carver to be closer. His wish is easily granted. Carver wrangles free of his boots and crawls onto the bed, following Felix’s mouth—still on hands and knees, he kisses him softly, at odds with the itchy, jittery _want_ coursing through them both, and Felix tries to slow himself to match. But he can’t. He needs to touch Carver _now_ , everywhere, needs the weight of him pressing him down into the mattress. Their legs tangle briefly, and then they settle, and it’s perfect. Almost.

“I want to—” He stops, embarrassed, but Carver looks down at him with eyes so blue they’re nearly black, and all hesitation flees. “I want to touch you, please.”

“You can touch me as much as you like. Wherever you like,” Carver rasps, and he’s already sitting back and tugging at his braces. Felix sits up to help with the buttons on his shirt, and even though they get distracted kissing one another, it doesn’t matter.

Eventually Carver shrugs his shirt off his shoulders and sits back on his heels, still pink in the face. The tips of his ears are pink, too, and there’s a little flush creeping down his chest that Felix finds incredibly endearing. And scattered across his torso like dark little stars are beauty marks, here and there, just inviting him to touch. So he does, very softly, delighting in each twitch and gasp that Carver makes, especially when he sits forward with his legs stretched out to either side of Carver’s knees and puts his mouth on them instead, little butterfly-soft kisses trailing in the wake of his fingers.

“Fee…”

“Yes?” He looks up, guileless, and is struck to dumbness by the naked expression on Carver’s face, the blue-black of his eyes and the plump red of his lips where he’s worried them with his teeth.

“I don’t want to, um, make you… uncomfortable…”

“You aren’t. You couldn’t,” Felix murmurs vehemently, and Carver leans in to buss his cheek like he can’t help himself.

“It’s just, well… _I’m_ a bit uncomfortable.” He laughs, strung out and self-conscious, and the awkward gesture of his body drags Felix’s eyes down to the strained placket of his trousers. “Um…”

Felix is a bit snug in the groin, too, if he’s honest, but he’s suddenly a lot more interested in the contents of Carver’s breeches than his own. “May I?” he asks, sitting forward and resting his hands tentatively on Carver’s thighs. They’re very muscular and firm—all of him is, by the looks of it, the virtues of a life spent working hard and wandering the moors—and he can feel them twitch slightly under his touch. Carver ducks his head, and he fancies the flush on the chest grows a little deeper at the question.

“Er—yes. Please,” he adds, and blushes harder. And when Felix reaches for his buttons he outright _groans_ , a deep rattle in his chest that makes Felix jump a little before he bends fully to his task.

It’s a bit tricky, undoing trousers from his direction, and it doesn’t help that he’s distracted by the hardness underneath and the little squirm and tilt of Carver’s hips that he can’t quite seem to control. When he finally gets them open he’s more than a little uncomfortable himself—with Carver’s eyes still pinned to his hands, he fumbles with his breeches and gets them open in a trice. Unlike Carver he’s not wearing smalls, having pulled the breeches on right over his nightshirt, and he’s suddenly paralyzingly self-conscious as his prick is exposed, hard and flushed and a little bit dewy at the tip.

“I’m—I’m sorry I’m not, that I don’t—” He stops, unsure of how to convey his fears.

Sensing his confusion, Carver shimmies out of his trousers and lays down beside him in his distended smallclothes, a healthy handspan or two between their bodies—but Felix doesn’t want it. He curls onto his side and pets Carver’s ribs until he puts an arm around his waist, and then it’s wonderful.

“We don’t have to,” Carver begins, but Felix shakes his head.

“I—that’s not it. I _do_ want to, with you. But.” He stops, trying to get his thoughts in order. Carver’s fingers stroke little circles against his spine, and up into his short hair, and his patience is soothing. Carver isn’t going to laugh at him, no matter what he says. “It’s just, I don’t know how,” he says at last, curling his hand into the sheets. “I know about… about men and women, I understand anatomy and biology, but we’re… we’re both _boys_.”

Carver seems to relax, a little, and Felix realizes that perhaps he’d been braced for a slightly different problem. “It’s not complicated. And there are… different ways.” He rubs his back a little more firmly and Felix takes the hint, wriggling close until they’re nearly chest to chest. “I mean, I’ve not done… anything. But I’ve heard, um, things. You know, among the servants.”

“You’ll show me, then?” Felix asks, a little more hopeful.

“I’ll try. We can—we can figure it out together,” Carver says bashfully, and he’s so gentle and adorable that Felix _has_ to kiss him, right this second.

And Carver is right—is _is_ simple. Their kisses have an edge, now, and their bodies follow suit, rolling and pushing together, a little clumsy perhaps but _good_ . Carver’s fingers push at the waistband of his breeches, not demanding but exploratory, and Felix wriggles out of them while Carver struggles free of his smalls, and he is so much _more_ than Felix ever imagined. Strong, yes, and warm-blooded, but tender and skittish and earthy. The smell of him is inescapable, sweat and wet soil, and it fills Felix’s nose and makes him feel small and soft in comparison, like a snail without a shell.

Carver notices. Of course he does. He cranes his neck down and kisses the protective curve of Felix’s shoulder, the jut of his wrist where it’s curled against his chest. “You’re so lovely,” he whispers, self-conscious but sincere, and Felix presses his face into his neck with a little sigh. “Can I…” His hand trails across Felix’s hip, stroking the skin there softly. Felix can feel each callous, and yet they aren’t rough against his skin, only _present_ , a reminder that Carver is just as strong and capable as he looks.

“Whatever you like,” he whispers back, although he thinks he has an idea. “I trust you.”

For answer, Carver presses a kiss to his eyebrow and wraps his fingers around his cock. Felix jumps a little, though he doesn’t mean to—when Carver passes him a startled look, he kisses him to cover the moment. Thus appeased, Carver’s touch firms, and the kiss grows loose and nebulous as Felix’s attention is dragged forcibly elsewhere.

He’s touched himself before, of course—mostly in the bath, where the evidence can be easily rid of. But it’s a bit new, still. The first time he woke up with sticky nightclothes and a racing heart had only been a few months ago, when the fresh air and sunshine of his new life had finally begun to sweep away the cobwebs of a life spent in sickbed. And to feel Carver’s touch instead of his own is doubly entrancing.

Though slow at first, and perhaps a little uncertain, he gains confidence with each gasp and sigh that escapes Felix, and soon he feels that tightness in his stomach, the curling fingers that seem to grab at his guts and twist, hot and sharp. His bites his lip and then Carver’s collarbone, right there in front of him and so tempting. Carver makes an involuntary noise and it sparks one in him, too, a small sound that drags on and on and pinches off with a gasp as he finishes, a few pulses of spend striping Carver’s hand.

“Oh god,” Carver gasps, turning to bury his face against the pillow. His soiled hand is curled into a first against his thigh, inches from his straining prick, but when Felix encourages him with a kiss to his neck and a hand to his wrist he takes himself in hand and tugs sharply. Once, twice. Felix watches, flushed and fascinated, as Carver’s manhood seems to swell just a bit more before spilling out, hot and wet against Felix’s belly.

“I'm sorry,” he says, shaking in Felix’s arms, but Felix soothes him quiet, stroking his hair until he calms.

“You're wonderful. No, don't—don't hide from me. Carver. You gorgeous creature…” He presses their foreheads together, overwhelmed. Carver's brilliant blue eyes meet his and crinkle in a bashful smile.

Like a knife deep in his belly he suddenly remembers that tomorrow he's leaving for the winter—possibly longer, thought he can't bring himself to confess it. Carver sees the look in his eyes and his smile fades, but Felix flings his arms around him and holds him close, heedless of the mess.

“Stay the night,” he whispers. “Please. I don't want to let you go.”

He hesitates, but it's clear that Carver is of a similar mind. He gives a brief nod and Felix sighs happily, snuggling close to him. Carver kisses the top of his head and doesn't let go.

They sleep for a while, tangled together with only the sheet over them. Felix wakes, sticky and chilled, some time later, but Carver warms him up with kisses—first for his mouth, then down his body, down until he can take Felix into his own mouth. It's electrifying. Felix squirms, and grips his hair, and tries to keep quiet and hold still all at once—but he can't quite help the little keening cry that emerges when he spends on Carver’s pink, clever tongue.

He returns the favor, or tries to. He's sloppy and unpracticed, and entirely at a loss what to do with his teeth, but Carver is so beautiful spread out before him, murmuring encouragement as he grows red from chest to hairline, that it doesn't matter.

When he comes, suddenly and with very little warning, Felix splutters at the taste and gets it all over his chin, but Carver doesn't laugh at him. Only apologizes, wiping his face clean, and nuzzling him with soft kisses until sleep returns to them both.

He sleeps later than he meant to. When he wakes to Martha tapping on his door with breakfast, his bed is empty but for him—in fact, there's no trace of Carver at all to be found in the room, except a loose catch on the window that rattles gently as Martha lays the fire. Tsking about catching cold, she shuts it firmly and bids him eat his breakfast before it cools.

Felix eats mechanically, with a leaden ball in his stomach that refuses to shift. _How could he leave me without saying goodbye?_ If Martha notices, she says nothing, only gathering his things together and setting out his clothes for the day. Then she makes a small noise of surprise that drags his hangdog attention from the window.

“Well look at this. I wonder how this got here?”

“What is it, Martha?” he asks anxiously, sitting upright in bed. Heavens, did Carver leave something behind after all? He blushes at the possibilities, but when Martha turns back around it’s only to hand him a little bundle of flowers—chicory and baby’s breath and a few dainty yellow roses, from his favorite rambling shrub in the garden. Not a note, but Carver’s version of one, perhaps. He squeezes the duvet between his hands and says, as calmly as he can manage, “Perhaps Bethy put it there yesterday. As a parting gift.”

“Mm. Perhaps.” She sets it on his breakfast tray with a knowing look. “Eat up, young master. There's a long journey ahead of you.”

He dresses quickly after breakfast, hoping to have a few minutes to run down to the Hawke cottage to see everyone, but he’s hardly got his tie fastened before Martha is returning, chivvying him along to meet his father at the front door. The servants have already taken his bags away, leaving him only with a small briefcase containing some essentials and a few books for the journey. And, of course, his schoolwork. He grimaces at the thought, but it can’t be helped—this will hardly be a holiday for him, even if they _are_ going to the Continent.

His father is waiting for him when he comes down the stairs to the foyer, one hand skimming along the railing though he hardly needs it. Gereon holds his hand out and kisses the top of his head in greeting. “Ready, my boy?”

“Yes, Father.” _No_ , he longs to say, already tight-throated at what he is leaving behind. But he is too proud to show it, so he tucks his briefcase under one arm and squeezes his father’s hand with the other, chin raised high and indifferent. “Shall we go?”

Gereon smiles faintly at his son’s grown-up mannerisms—though in truth he’s nearly grown into them, now, just a few months shy of seventeen—and nods his head toward the door. “We shall.”


	2. 2.

_September the second._

_Dear Carver and Bethany,_

_I write to you from the deck of our steam ship, the Lady Mary III. It is currently very fine weather at sea, and I am not certain whether to be relieved or disappointed. It has certainly taken some getting used to, living aboard a ship for these few days. Sometimes I feel as if I’ve lost a few months of progress, and am learning to walk all over again. But Dorian—that’s my tutor, and he’s traveled loads, so he knows all about it—says that I’m very nearly “shipshape” and that in another day or two I shan’t wobble at all when I walk._

_I miss you both very sorely, and the garden too. Being at sea is a wild adventure, but I can’t help wishing all of you were here with me. Or that I was with you, pulling weeds or perhaps digging a new plot. I wonder how the lettuces are getting on? I was hoping the wall would keep out rabbits, but I fear Mr Rutherford is right, and they have dug their holes underneath to feast on the fruits of our labor._

_Please tell me how everyone is back home, and I will write again as soon as I hear from you. I shan’t be able to send this letter until we make port, anyway, but if all goes well I shall have word from you in a fortnight or so. I look forward to it eagerly, as it shall be my only relief from my studies that I have been allowed so far._

_Yours devotedly,_

_Felix H. G. Alexius_

//

Bethany puts down the letter and raises an eyebrow. “What do you suppose the _H. E._ bit stands for?”

“Henri Gregoire,” Carver says absently, brown furrowed in concentration as he works the needle through another hole in the leather saddle. Fenris has him mending, as he is busy with helping their mother in the garden, and Carver’s head cold prevents him from being outside. “He was named for his father and his grandfather, I believe.”

“How do you know _that_?” Bethany demands. “I remember when you didn’t even know his _first_ name.” She gets up without waiting for a reply and sets about to making tea. Instead of answer, Carver gives a weak cough into his hand and smiles pitifully at her sharp look. “Carv…”

“What? I’m fine. It’s just a little cold. Heavens, Bethy, I’m not going to keel over and die.”

“You say that now,” she murmurs, but her lips are pursed in a stifled smile. “Come on, have some of this tea. Then perhaps you won’t sound so sad and heartsick when you talk about him.”

“I’m not heartsick,” Carver says immediately, scowling at his handiwork. “Bethy, are these stitches even?”

“Well bring them here, and let me see. Hmm. Yes, they look all right, I suppose; but I’ve never mended a saddle, so who am I to say? Ask Fenris. No, don’t go outside—heavens, _I’ll_ fetch him. Carver!”

“It’s only for a moment!” he calls over his shoulder, though he grabs a scarf as he ducks out the door in concession to her fussing.

It _is_ blasted cold out. Colder than it should be, for late September. The winter looks like it’s going to be a bad one—everyone is muttering about it, from the serving maids in the manor to the gardeners under Mr Rutherford to the villagers down in town, when Carver last ran out for more flour a few days ago. He’d been caught in a rainstorm coming back up, thus the cold, but he doesn’t see why he has to be confined inside because of it. It’s not as if he had the flu, or any such thing.

His mother scolds him when he finds them in the back garden, working on pulling the last of the season’s garlic from the ground. She passes her bundles to Fenris and grabs Carver by the scarf as if to frog-march him back inside, but he stays her with a hand to her shoulder. Surprisingly, it works. Perhaps it’s something to do with the few inches he’s put on since summer.

“I have need of Fenris, just for a moment. I want to be sure I’m not doing it wrong.”

“I’m sure you’re not,” Fenris murmurs, a flash of amusement showing under his stern brow, but he hands off his burden and follows him back into the house regardless. Bethany is at the table when they return, pouring hot water into the teapot—she gives them a quick glance and then goes back to her work without a word. Carver wonders if he’s upset her.

“Here,” he says, hefting the saddle for Fenris to see. They go over his work briefly, Fenris pronouncing it “Fine,” and when he goes out again, door banging shut in the wind behind him, Carver rounds on his sister.

“All right, what is it? What have I done?”

“Done? You’ve done nothing, I’m sure, not that I know about anyway.” She takes the third teacup she’d set out—presumably for Fenris—and returns it to the cupboard. “Why do you ask?”

“Well you didn’t say a thing to us when we came in, and gave us such a look—I was sure you were angry about something.” He sits at the table, watching her carefully. Her face is blank, a study in innocence, but he’s hardly fooled. They aren’t twins for nothing, after all. “C’mon, Bethy. I promise I won’t laugh, whatever it is.”

She gives him a _look_ , one he returns full force. “Leave it be, Carv. It’s nothing, all right?”

The door flies open again suddenly, and Fenris makes his apologies as he ducks through to the back room, probably for some twine or pruning shears or something of the like. Bethany stares studiously at the teapot as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world, and suddenly it clicks. _Oh god. Not her, too_.

“Bethy,” he murmurs when Fenris is gone again, this time for good. Probably.

“Oh, don’t say anything, will you? Please?” She flops into her chair and pours the tea with brisk, furious motions perhaps a little sooner than it should be—the brew looks weaker than usual, but Carver says nothing about it.

“Yeah all right. Do we have any biscuits?”

“On the counter in the tin,” she says automatically, though he well knows the answer already. He thinks she breathes a sigh of relief as he goes in search of them without pressing her further on the matter.

///

_October the eighth._

_Felix,_

_You asked for news, but I’m afraid there’s not much to tell. Winter has come early to the moors, so I have little to do up at the Manor. Bethy is kept busy, as there are still daily tasks to do around the house to keep it in good repair, but Mr Rutherford rarely has need of me in the gardens as we put them to bed a week ago and I am not yet senior enough to help with the planning for next spring. Thankfully your father is a most generous employer, and we all receive a small wage even in the off-season, so with a little bit of care we shall see the winter through quite comfortably._

_Bethy wishes me to tell you that she has been keeping your pianoforte in good tune, and that it shall not want for a player so long as she has your permission to practice on it. I tease her about being a highborn lady, becoming so accomplished as she is, but she won’t let me own it as I have been trying to learn French. Fenris speaks it fluently, as his mother was French, and he has been giving Bethy and me daily lessons—me more than Bethy, because she already speaks it a little. Mother was from a well-to-do family and she’s taught Bethany a great deal of airs that I find silly and pointless, but they are determined to be ‘cultured.’ So be it. I am happy to be a farmer’s son, and so I shall always be, I think._

_Speaking of Fenris and Bethany, I think something might be going on. Not a_ **_thing_** _, exactly, but they pass looks enough between them that I can scarcely draw breath for how thick the air is. Mother says it’s my lungs recovering, but it’s rather more jolly to imagine I’m choking on my sister’s silly infatuation._

 _I wish you would write more often. I want to know all about the cities you’re visiting and the fun you’re having. I know you can’t_ **_only_ ** _be studying. Please write back soon._

_Yours,_

_Carver M. Hawke and Bethany (and Mum and Fenris too, I suppose)_

//

“He seems quite… charming. In a bucolic sort of way.” Dorian lifts his brows as if dismayed, though a smile twitches at the corners of his expressive mouth. “Don’t look at me that way! You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I rather do. And I won’t have you talking about him like that.” Felix folds the latest letter from Carver up into a tight packet and tucks it into his breast pocket with care. Across the table from him, where they sit in a dim Parisian cafe watching buckets rain down outside, Dorian twirls his mustache and lights another cigarette.

“Whatever you say, my dear. _I_ think it is a dreadful mistake, if you want my opinion—”

“I don’t,” Felix interrupts flatly, but Dorian is already going on.

“Falling in love with someone of a lesser station—well, it’s all very _Tolstoy_ of you, which I approve of tremendously, but it never ends well, does it? There are dreadful things like _fathers_ and _expectations_ , which can never be got around in quite the way you would wish, I find.” There’s a keener edge to his smile now, as he blows a stream of pale blueish smoke to the hazy ceiling. Felix knows better than to press him on the subject, so he busies himself with his coffee instead, licking foam off the slight mustache he’s started growing since they came to France.

“Father isn’t as traditional as all that,” he murmurs, though the words are hollow. His father may be “odd” by society’s standards, but now that he is no longer bedridden, Felix will be expected to fulfill certain obligations. Dorian is perfectly right. And he does not have the luxury of wealthy friends and relatives to ensure that he can continue to live in whatever manner he pleases, as Dorian does.

“Well, no matter. It’s not as if you can carry on right now, anyway, aside from exchanging letters. Tell me, what are you going to write back? I must know.” He sits forward in his chair, eyes alight with curiosity, and Felix smiles reluctantly.

“I’m going to tell him that my tutor is the most absurd flirt in the history of Paris, and that I shall be hard pressed to keep him focused on my studies rather than winking and kissing up to every handsome man within five miles.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am being _paid_ for my services, you know. As much as your father adores me I rather doubt he will be pleased if I drag you to any… _dens of iniquity_.” He winks after he says it, and Felix knows that he’s teasing—but that he might also be perfectly serious, if Felix wished it. Felix isn’t sure what he wishes. It’s not as if he and Carver have any formal sort of understanding, even if they _could_. And yet he finds himself unwilling to betray the memory of his time with Carver, that last night in Misselthwaite Manor. Unwilling to trespass on the ghost of his touch, his smile, his regard.

He lifts his coffee to his lips and casts his eyes out the window, watching the passers-by in their bundled coats and rain-slicked umbrellas. Carver is learning French, he had said. Felix wonders if that has anything to do with his last letter, which was full of tales of Paris and the adventures he had had in the evenings, roaming the streets and frequenting restaurants and clubs when his studies were complete. Hardly dens of iniquity, but worldly places all the same, places he can hardly imagine Carver being. He shuts his eyes and thinks of the garden. That, at least, will always be a certainty.

///

_December the tenth._

_My dear friends,_

_With the onset of winter we have left Paris for warmer climes, as Father is worried about my health. No need for alarm—I am perfectly fine! But you understand how parents can be. Carver, listen to your mother. If she wishes you to spend more time indoors than out of it, you must listen to her! I won’t have you taking ill any more this season if you can possibly help it._

_We spent some time in Nice, only a fortnight. Father allowed me some time off, so Dorian and I were quite the little adventurers, riding all over the countryside and touring the city. I wish you could have been here! Bethany, in particular, would have enjoyed it immensely. There are so many old castles here, and the countryside! Worthy even of Carver, I think. I could almost picture him here beside me, striding along on the trails as if he were the king of them._

_Now we are in Italy. Venice, to be exact, but I expect we will be going to Rome, soon, as it is a fantastically storied city, with a history that happens to coincide with my studies at present. You may find enclosed a few sketches I’ve done for Bethany and Mrs. Hawke—for all of you, I suppose. They aren’t very good, but I wanted to try and illustrate the wonderful architecture and charming little streets here._

_I understand that the Manor is having a Christmas ’do for all the employees and their families. I do hope you will write to me of it! Christmas here will be dull, I fear, without my friends there to make it bearable. Father has some wretched idea of visiting his old school friends for the holidays, and I shall be paraded about and made much of, which you know I despise. But it has to be done, I suppose. He’s quite unlike the absent father I used to know at Misselthwaite, and I find I’m quite eager to please him and earn his good opinion._

_Please write back soon. I am most eager to hear from all of you._

_Yours fondly,_

_Felix_

//

Winter has only been a month and already Carver is heartily sick of it. The days are long and dark and lonely, and he spends most of them out wandering the moor in spite of his mother’s cautions, in all weather. He placates her by reminding her that he’s healthy as a horse, and the little cold he’d had in the beginning of autumn is now well behind him.

His exhortations fall flat when he returns from the Manor one day with a stuffed head and a scratchy throat. Mr Rutherford had sent him home early from the day’s work when he noticed Carver’s pale face and sluggishness, and he won’t own it, but he’s grateful to be released. Rutherford tells him to come back when he’s feeling more himself, and he stumbles down the hill alone just after midday, hoping that someone will have the foresight to let Bethy know he won’t be there to walk her home.

His mum is out to town when he gets back, so he lets himself in and puts tea on to boil. But he doesn’t even have the patience to wait for it—his clothes are soaked through with the sweat of hard work, and the chill drives him upstairs to change and huddle into the bed he shares with Bethy, the fire just flickering to life from his tending.

He falls asleep, against his expectations, and wakes a little while later to his mother’s hand cool on his brow and her worried face swimming before his eyes. He shuts them again promptly and grumbles a protest. “‘M fine. Just a head cold, Mr Rutherford told me to come home and rest.”

“A head cold indeed,” Leandra mutters, but she tucks another blanket around him and bestows a gentle kiss on his forehead. “I suppose that’s why you left the kettle to boil dry, is it? No matter, dear, I’ll make a fresh pot and bring you a cup.”

“Thank you, Mum,” he croaks, as is promptly asleep again.

He wakes to drink the lukewarm tea standing at his bedside, and he feels a little better. But when he stands to use the chamber pot, the world spins around him and he sits down again, hard. He proceeds with more care this time, but by the time he returns to his bed he’s shaking and clammy and his head feels fit to burst for how much it aches.

The next week or so is intolerable. He feels well again in a few days, but his mother refuses to let him out of bed, and as if by her demand, the flu comes down hard and he is bedridden for what feels like months. In truth, time blurs a little bit. He is dimly aware of the village doctor visiting, and of Bethany sitting by his bed at all hours, but he spends most of his time asleep or scarcely awake, surrounded by swirling shapes and shadows while the fever works its way out of his system.

He doesn’t know until later how serious it is. One day he opens his eyes, feeling more clear-headed than he has in ages, and finds his sister weeping at his bedside. When he reaches out weakly and rests his hand on her skirts, she starts and her mouth flies open, and he wonders if it was really as bad as all that. Certainly he _feels_ as if he’s been dragged through town by a team of horses, but surely that’s just an exaggeration? But the red sleeplessness of Bethy’s eyes and the hoarse, desperate way she calls for their mother says otherwise.

He is fed broth, and tea, and Fenris is summoned to help him stand and use the chamberpot for himself—they’ve had to use a bedpan the past few days, he learns to his great shame—and afterward he falls right to sleep again, though this time it is dreamless and untroubled, lulled off to the relieved whisperings of his mother and sister.  

“You nearly died,” Beth tells him the next day, in a low and tremulous voice. “You had what Father had, or a milder version of it anyway.”

“Truly?” He’s sitting up in bed, nearly buried under a mountain of blankets, with hot tea cupped in his palms and a bowl of broth— _more godawful broth_ —waiting in Bethy’s lap. “I’m sorry I worried you. But I’m feeling better now, truly. I don’t mean _entirely_ better,” he adds when she glowers at him. “I’m not going to jump out of bed and start dancing a jig anytime soon.”

“Indeed you are not!” Leandra sweeps in as if summoned by the suggestion of him getting out of bed. She has some parcels hanging on her arm in preparation to go into town, and she looks at Bethany meaningfully. “Would you like to walk me into town, dearest? Get out of the house? You’ve been cooped up here for nearly a week.”

Bethany brightens for a moment, but then she shakes her head and clasps the bowl of broth like it’s her favorite doll. “I’ll stay and keep Carver company. Make sure he doesn’t get into any mischief. Oh! Wait a moment, I’ve a letter for you to post.” She sets the bowl on the side table and goes to the writing desk that sits between their beds.

“Is it for Felix?” Carver asks hoarsely. “Has he sent any letters since I’ve been ill?”

“He has not, not since the last one. I’ve just been tardy in replying. We’ve all been… very busy.” His sister glances at him and then down to the letter. “I wrote this this morning, while you were napping, so it’s quite recent.”

“Would you…” Carver trails off, looking to their mother. “I’m sorry, I know I’m keeping you waiting, but would you mind if I wrote a little something?”

“I’ll write,” Bethany says, to his dismay—he thinks he manages to hide it, from Bethany if not from his mother’s sharp eyes. “You can tell me what you want me to say.”

///

_February the twelfth._

_Dearest Felix,_

_I have good news that will mean little to you now, since you do not know what has transpired the last few weeks. Carver took ill again—gravely ill. We (Mother and Fenris and I, and Master Rutherford, as well as the village doctor) quite feared for his life, as he was tossing and turning with fever and rambling in his sleep so badly as to make no sense. The worst of it was two days ago. He grew so still and silent, barely breathing. I sat by his bed all night and prayed, and I thought of you, too. I knew that you would have wanted to be here._

_But thankfully the danger has passed! Carver is sitting up and looking more himself to-day, and Mother and I are at last beginning to breathe easier. He gave us such a fright! And am I certain you will be as relieved as we to learn that he is improving hourly. By tomorrow he is sure to be asking for solid foods and to be allowed out-of-doors, which of course he will not be! I do not know if Mother will let him out of the house until spring, at this rate. Let us hope the weather breaks soon._

_Both Master Fenris and Mr Rutherford have been by to visit, and I think Carver is glad of the company. But I know he wishes very sorely that you were here to entertain him. He will not inquire himself because he has far too much pride, but I will ask for him—please do write a special note to him to help keep his spirits up. He is so dreadfully lonely here when I am at the Manor and only has Mother to fret and fuss over him, and I know he misses you even though he will not admit to it._

_Please tell us more of Rome! We are all quite eager to hear your tales and see the little sketches you include. They brighten a dreary winter and make us all think fondly of warmer lands and friendly faces when the moors seem bleak and lonely._

_Your friend,_

_Bethany_

_xxx_

_P.S. And now I will include a little dictation from Carver, since he is well enough to do so._

_Felix—_

_I hope this note finds you well. Bethany says she already told you about my being sick, so I won’t bore you with more talk of it—I’m bored to death with it myself. Bethy says not to say such things as I very nearly died, but I feel quite energetic and grumpy from being cooped up in my bed, so I shall say what I like._

_Your last letter said a lot about the food there, so please have some extra crepe and gelato for me—both at once, if possible. Particularly if you Da is there to glare at you the way he does, with those bristly brows. And you may tell him I said so._

_Yours,_

_Hawke, esq._

_P.S. If Bethy signs this with a fancy title, please ignore her. She’s been quite intolerably silly today._

//

Felix reads and rereads the letter from Bethany with one hand to his mouth, trying to stem the tide of emotion that threatens to well up. Carver, ill. Carver, nearly _dead_. And he on the streets of Rome, carefree and clueless. How he hates himself for it!

His father finds him this way, in the morning room of their apartments in the city, pale and sitting quite alone in a patch of sun with his tea gone cold beside him. Gereon goes to him swiftly, but Felix only grips his hand and sits quietly for a short time as he comes to terms with the letter’s contents. _He is well. He will be well. It’s very nearly the end of March. And surely they would send word again soon if he relapsed._

“Father, may I send a telegram?” he says suddenly, rocketing upright out of his chair.

“Of course you may,” Gereon says, brow wrinkled with confusion in much the way that Carver had described in his note—the comparison makes Felix want to laugh, but he fears that if he does, he will not stop until the hysteria has passed. “You have a modest allowance, have you not? You may spend it as you wish.”

“Yes… yes of course. Forgive me. I will return soon.” He jumps to his feet, entirely forgetting that he could send the butler in his stead, and gathers his coat and scarf and goes out into the street.

_just received your letter STOP please respond that carver is still well STOP will wire money ahead STOP_

That done, he takes the long way back, meandering through the streets and occasionally fingering the letter still stowed in his breast pocket. When he returns, Dorian is waiting, all confusion—Felix glosses over it. It still feels too raw to betray, even to Dorian, who has become like a brother to him these last few months. Instead he turns to his studies with renewed fervor, determined to not be a mindless worrywart in the meantime.

The return telegram is delivered that evening at supper. Felix excuses himself and flees the room to the veranda, where he reads the small handful of words with relief bubbling up inside him.

_carver well STOP money not necessary STOP will write asap STOP_

He exhales long and loud and presses the bit of paper of his lips. _Thank god. Oh, thank god he is well._

There’s a tap at the open glass doors and he turns to see Dorian hovering at the threshold, concern creasing his normally jovial countenance. He has a multitude of masks, has Dorian, but this, he knows, is genuine.

“Are you quite well, dear boy?” Dorian asks gently, as if he were twenty years Felix’s senior instead of two.

“I am. I am well, thank you. It’s just, I had some news. From… from Carver.”

“Good or ill?” He slips out onto the veranda, leaving the door open behind him, and joins him at the railing with folded arms. “Good, I hope?”

“A bit of both, in truth, but good news overall. Carver was ill last month—Bethany wrote to say that he was well, but the date was so long ago that I wanted more current news.” He hands over the telegram rather than explain, and Dorian skims it in an instant, brows raised.

“Money not necessary?”

“I… wired ahead a little bit, to cover the return telegram. I didn’t want to presume…” He trails off uncomfortably, but Dorian is not shaking his head with disapproval as he had feared.

“Very practical of you. Felix…” And now Felix _is_ afraid, though of what he could not say. “Is your father aware of the… understanding between you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Felix says, more steadily than he feels. “He knows Carver, yes, and likes him quite well—and his sister. Though I don’t believe he’s met their mother. Carver helped me learn to walk again, and Bethany, so of course they are in my father’s good graces.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Dorian says crisply, “and you know it.”

“Regardless, my statement still holds. There _is_ no understanding.” Felix twists his hands together, suddenly regretting being so forward with Dorian about Carver. He trusts him, of course he does. But Dorian’s view of the world is keener, more bitter, and he is terribly good at sniffing out the ways that Felix doesn’t _fit_. “How could there be? We are not… of the same class, or the same…” His voice trails off weakly.

“That’s part of the problem, isn’t it? You _are_ the same, in one glaringly difficult respect.” Dorian’s eyes trail over him, assessing rather than provocative, but Felix blushes and turns away regardless, looking out over their view of the city and the sea beyond it. “And, unlike me, you have no way to simply… run away and hide from it all.”

“Is that what you’re doing, here? Running away and hiding?”

“Oh, certainly. And making an honest living for myself while I’m at it.” He winks, but there’s a glimmer of something not quite right behind that face. Something hurting. Felix knows the glossed-over version of Dorian’s history from his father—caught with a gentleman friend in a provocative position, thrown from the house in disgrace, now relying on the employment of a family friend to keep himself afloat—but the truth seems to cut deeper than that. Yet Felix finds he’s afraid to ask.

“I have no particularly great expectations for myself,” he says at long last, hands moving slow along the veranda railing. “I should be perfectly happy to study maths for the rest of my life, in the comfort of Misselthwaite. Perhaps traveling occasionally,” he allows, when Dorian makes an incredulous noise. “I’m not like you,” he adds, more softly. “I would be content with a quiet life. Where you, I think, might feel stifled by it.”

“You mistake me,” Dorian murmurs. “A quiet life would suit me well. It’s only that reality has not been so kind to me as it has been to you. A quiet life, at present, is quite impossible.”

Felix quietly aches for him, but he dare not speak of it lest he offend his friend. Instead he reaches out and clasps his shoulder in solidarity. “Well, you shall always have a quiet life with me. That I can promise you.”

“You’re too kind, I’m sure.” The words are honest, if the tone isn’t—Dorian looks like he’s struggling to choose between authenticity and deflection. Whichever it is, Felix gives him a nod and tucks the telegram into his pocket, where it will stay safe, a reminder until the real letter comes.

“Shall we go back in? Father will likely be worrying.”

Dorian tips his head. “After you.”

///

_May the nineteenth._

_My dear friends,_

_It has certainly been a whirlwind winter. I was glad to have your last letter, detailing all the new things budding and blooming in the garden—in_ **_our_ ** _garden. Thank you for the pressed flowers you sent. It means a lot to have that little piece of home with me here, especially in light of the news I have to share with you now._

_We are returning to Paris for the spring and summer, and I’m not certain when we’ll return to Misselthwaite. The journey isn’t too terrible, but Dorian despises traveling by ship, which of course would be required to traverse the Channel, and I’m not certain that I can convince my father of the need to take a “holiday” by returning home without his or Dorian’s chaperonage. I hope that you will continue to write to me, as I will to you. In the fall, if all goes as planned, I shall begin my studies at Eton, and Father will return to the Manor. With any luck I shall have more freedom then to come and go as I please, and may even be able to visit for Christmas._

_I hope this letter finds you well. I remain yours faithfully etc.,_

_Felix_

//

“ _Christmas_?”

Bethany lowers the letter and looks at him, her pinched unhappily—more for his sake than for hers, he knows. He whirls abruptly from the fireplace and begins to pull on his shoes. “Carver, where are you going? Mother will be down for church soon, you can’t—”

He doesn’t hear the rest of what she has to say—it’s lost to the slam of the door and the swirl of the warm spring breeze in the wake of it, smelling of fresh-blooming heather and wet, rich loam. Growing smells, _living_ smells. They seem to taunt him as he stalks down the road and out onto the moor, dogging his heels like stubborn terriers unwilling to give up their prey.

It’s all very clear to him. This ‘Dorian’ character, whom Felix has written much of and whose company he seems to enjoy, has taken what Carver believed to be his. Felix’s heart. Such a precious thing to him, so ephemeral and yet so transforming, so _necessary_. The memory of Felix’s touch and smile had kept him going through the ungodly long winter, had spurred him to new pursuits, trying to better himself in any small way he could. As if that would make any difference to Felix. He isn’t the son of a gentleman, he’s the son of a farmer. Of a pauper. And he can never measure up.

It’s a very long and lonely afternoon. He stomps up and down the gently sloping hillsides, gritting his teeth and raging at himself, at Felix, at this faceless _Dorian_ , at the unfairness of the world. That he should meet Felix, help him learn to walk again, teach him the ways of birds and flowers, spend nearly every afternoon entertaining him, only to be dropped like so much useless sod. Unnecessary. Unneeded. Un _wanted_.

At long last, when the sun is very near the horizon, his anger wears out, leaving him hollow. He had been unwilling to face the truth, these past months. That’s all. The truth hurts, but he can accept it. He _will_ accept it. He has other things to worry about besides a foolish, boyish crush—his mother and sister must be provided for, Mr Rutherford is relying on him more and more in the garden. This is what his life must be. This is what he will devote himself to. Family, loyalty, honor… he must hold these above the whimsical affection of one short, restless summer.

When he returns to the cottage he’s missed dinner, and Bethany and his mother are going about their evening tasks in tight, frizzled silence that seems to leap with tension. Carver nods to Bethy, kisses his mother’s cheek, and makes a quiet apology for his absence. “I’ll do my chores now, and after work tomorrow. You won’t hardly miss them,” he says, but his mother forestalls him.

“Fenris has taken care of the milking and the garden, dear. Why don’t you sit and have your supper, and then you can finish up the rest.”

Carver hides a wince of shame. Fenris has his own little duties he sees to on the weekends, and for him to have to pull Carver’s weight as well as his own… he will have to apologize. “Thank you,” he says now, mumbling. His mother doesn’t chastise him for not enunciating, just has him sit down and plunks a bowl of stew in front of him. There’s no bread, but he doesn’t ask for it.

When he ducks back outside to look after the chickens and check after the fruit trees, it’s nearly dark, but he drags out the chores anyway, not wanting to go back inside just yet. After a while, Bethy comes out to join him, bearing a lantern, and they check over their small orchard for mites or evidence of disease in thick silence. They work in silence and they finish in silence, and when it’s done and Bethany speaks, even the whisper of her voice is like a clap of thunder.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he says, too brusquely. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Carver…”

He looks at her without expression, and she bites her lip. “Don’t ask me,” he says as evenly as he can manage. “Please.”

“All… all right. I shan’t.” She dusts off her apron conscientiously. “Would you… like to walk?”

The idea of going inside is unbearably stifling. He gives a quick, relieved nod and accepts her arm looping through his when she offers it. She makes no attempt at conversation, nor any sound at all, only walks beside him down the side lane to the open moors, and there they wander in the cold, unfriendly moonlight until their mother’s worried voice summons them back inside for bed.


End file.
